Can Never Forget
by Stillicidium
Summary: Linda has a crush on Near, Matt has a crush on Linda, and Near is just playing with his toys. Can anyone have what they want?I'm not so good with summaries, sorry. You can read and summarize it yourself, 'kay Some swearing.
1. In Which There Is Cake and Laughter

"_Love is blind, but friendship closes its eyes." - Anonymous_

-August 24, 2000-

The children of the Wammy's House, just like all the other children of the world, were prone to chaotic behaviors whenever an opportunity to behave as such presented itself. Undoubtedly, the most chaotic of all events in the Wammy's House were birthdays. While the institution did not formally recognize the birthdays of children, every time one of the fifty-two residents of the House announced that his or her birthday was coming up, the kids began huddling in groups, making plans to celebrate their companion's birthday. On the day of the party, every single child would be drawn to the field outside the House, where the festivities would begin. Dreaded were these parties by the adults of the House, because, being the ones _responsible_ for the children, they were the ones _responsible _for cleaning up after the party. However, birthday parties were never prohibited, and birthdays were therefore always celebrated.

It was on the day of a birthday party that our three main characters had their first important run-in with one another.

Linda was eight years old. It was not her party, but she could very well imagine it was, and she in fact thought at first that it might be. Her birthday was the next day, and she saw nothing wrong with celebrating early. She, being a new child in the Wammy's House, did not know that the other children wouldn't dare do something as "pointless" and "ridiculous" as throwing a party for someone on a day that had no significance to the person being celebrated, no matter how close it was to any day that did have reason for celebration to said person.

No, it was not Linda's party. It was the party of a boy called Near. He had now been on the earth for nine years (give or take a few hours, minutes, and seconds). To celebrate such a remarkable feat, an enormous nine-tiered cake was baked for the party. The cake had nine candles on it, which, when compared to the sized of the cake, seemed rather puny. The candles were all stuck into the cake on the lowest tier; Near was a short boy and it would be hard for him to blow them out had they been any higher. He did not care much for blowing out the candles on the cake, though, nor did he care much for the cake. He didn't really like the party, or any party, for that matter, but, trying to be polite, he did as much as one has to at one's birthday party, which consists mainly of simply blowing out candles and pretending to be ecstatic after opening yet another uncreative present.

Matt did not care much for the party, either. This was not because he didn't like parties in general, though. He was not enjoying the party because it was a party for Near. He did not quite like Near, but for reasons he could not find. He never tried to find the reasons he didn't like the other child, either. He simply did not like him, and that was that.

Linda was looking up at the giant cake, its candles melting in the hot sun and from the still-burning flames. She couldn't wait to dig into it, but with those candles just sitting there she couldn't do so without angering somebody. So, she patiently waited. For about thirty seconds. Then her patience ran out, and she decided to just blow the candles out herself because it seemed apparent that nobody else planned on doing so any time soon.

Linda crept up to the table the enormous cake was sitting on and locked her gaze on the candles. She was going to blow them out or die trying. She looked around to make sure nobody was watching her, but then she realized that with so many people around it was unlikely that no one would see her, so she decided instead to hope that nobody cared.

She took a large intake of breath, and then... somebody tripped her. "Ow!" she cried when she roughly hit the ground. "Oh, great, now I've got grass stains on my jeans." She sat up and began dusting herself off.

"No, you don't," a voice said from above her. Linda looked up, shading her eyes to see better. Standing above her was a boy with remarkably white hair.

"Huh?" Linda looked down at her jeans. Upon seeing that she did, in fact, not have any grass stains on her jeans, she felt her cheeks turn red with embarrassment. "Oh, uh, right." She paused, thinking about what had just happened, when something occurred to her. "Hey! Did you trip me and make me fall?" she demanded from the white-haired boy above her.

"It was an accident, but, yes, I did trip you," the boy replied.

"Hmm." Linda was a little angry, but she figured it was no big deal. She stood up, once again dusting herself off. "Hey, d'you know whose birthday it is? They'd better get movin' on blowing out those candles."

"It is my birthday," the boy said, and he blew out the candles on the cake, "Does that satisfy you?"

Linda was ecstatic that she could finally get to the cake without the barrier of the candles standing in the way. She jumped for joy, but only on the inside. On the outside she kept a very calm expression. "Yep, that's good now." Her gaze darted to and from the cake. Eventually, she just took her hand and scooped out a chunk of cake.

The boy looked at her quizzically. "What?" she said. "There aren't any plates or anything." It was true, the table seemed devoid of any flatware.

"I know," was all he replied, then eyed the cake himself and gently scooped off a frosting flower and licked it.

When her handful of cake was gone, Linda looked at the boy, half wondering why he hadn't walked away yet, and half wondering how he could resist taking more of that splendid cake than just some wimpy little flower. "Hey..." she said, "um, what's your name?"

"Near," responded Near. "I assume it would be most polite for me to ask for your name in return."

Linda was perplexed by his usage of words. _"I assume it would be most polite for me to ask for your name in return"_? Oh, he must be one of the _intellectual_ geniuses. "Sure," she said. "Uh, they call me 'Linda' now."

"I see, Linda," Near said.

"Yeah... so if it's _your_ birthday today, how old are you?"

"Nine years."

"Hey, that's how old I'm gonna be! Tomorrow's my birthday," Linda excitedly said.

"Ah, congratulations."

"You too, 'cause, you know, it's _your_ birthday today and all."

"Yes."

Meanwhile, from behind a group of children whom he was only with because they were taller than he was, and if he sat he could enjoy the coolness of their shadows, Matt watched the meeting between Linda and Near play out. He was familiar with Linda – she had been introduced to him by Roger on her first day there a few weeks ago– and he was more than familiar with Near.

Matt stood up and began walking towards the table with the cake on, telling himself he wanted to get a piece of the cake which was oddly untouched by the other children, but it was really because he wanted to be included in Linda and Near's conversation. He strode up to the other children and tried to work up the courage to nonchalantly wished Near a happy birthday, something he could have been content not doing at all that day. It was the only thing he could think of to be a part of the conversation, though.

"Uh, hey guys. Oh, I mean, uh, guy and girl. Yeah, sorry, Linda," Matt fumbled with his words.

Linda turned her head to look at the person who had addressed her. "Oh, hey. You're... Matt, right? Sorry, I don't really remember names well."

"Uh-huh," Matt confirmed. "So, Near," he imagined he took a large intake of breath before saying quickly, "happy birthday."

"Thank you. I didn't think you would say that to me," Near responded monotonously.

"Why's that?" Matt asked.

"You don't seem to like me," Near explained.

Hearing this made Matt nervous. He was pretty sure no one knew he disliked Near. He had, after all, been generally cordial towards the boy most of the time. Then again, Matt secretly suspected Near of being psychic. How else could he know so much at such a young age, including people's personal opinions?

"Oh. Well, I don't not like you," was the weak rebuttal given by Matt.

"I don't not like you, either," Near agreed.

"Okay, um, that's good, then. Now, uh, 'scuse me, I'd like to get some cake."

"Oh, right, yeah, sure," Linda affirmed several times and stepped backwards for Matt to get to the cake.

Matt grinned and nodded. "Thank you." Then he took a handful of cake and stared at it as if unsure of what one is supposed to do with cake. He then grinned again, and smeared the cake all over his face and started laughing.

Near said, "Why did you do that?" at the same time that Linda said, "Ha, ha, does the cake help you cool down or something?"

Matt just smiled at them and started wiping cake off his face. "It's a tradition, you know," he began, "to shove cake in the face of the birthday child."

"No, it isn't," Near argued, "and that in no explains why you put cake in your own face."

"Well, it's a new tradition. You didn't hear? It was established just yesterday. Man, I thought everybody knew about it. That's why no one's been touching the cake and why there're no plates or forks or anything; everybody's been waiting for the opportune moment to shove your face in that cake, and they wouldn't want to waste all that face-smashing goodness on a sweet tooth," Matt improvised, suddenly becoming very outgoing, "so we really shouldn't make everybody wait much longer, should we? Haven't we been patient enough?"

"Yeah!" Linda piped up. "Let's get this show on the road!"

Before Near had a chance to object, a rather large handful of cake was shoved into his face. Whoever the culprit was, however, was doing a good job of looking innocent, and neither Matt nor Linda confessed to being the one to do it. So, seeing as how neither of the suspects accepted the blame, Near applied it to both of them: "You two...! Well, now you guys can eat the cake knowing that some pesky 'tradition' is out of the way."

"Oh, no, we can't. See, the cake was shoved into your face, but the tradition is the other way around: your face goes into the cake," Matt persisted, wanting to get in a few more face-smashes before calling it quits.

"Hee-hee," Linda giggled, "maybe that's enough creaming him in the face for now. There'll be another cake for him next year. 'Sides, you don't wanna get all your face-smashing desire out now, 'cause if you do you'll have no will to do it tomorrow when it's _my_ birthday."

Matt grinned at this. He was just having too much fun caking people. "Okay, that makes sense. Ha, see, Near? Tradition. Now we've gotta do it tomorrow on her birthday. And you can be the one to cake her first, y'know, for revenge, if you wanna."

Near almost felt himself smile at how ridiculous the situation was. "Yes," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The next day, a smaller, more rushed party was held for Linda,because people didn't have as much time to prepare for the birthday party that caught them all off guard, so her party was basically Near's leftovers. The top two tiers of Near's birthday cake were even used as her cake, seeing as how they had been untouched by the grubby hands of the children of the House.

The first grubby hands of a child – not that these hands were necessarily grubby – to touch Linda's cake belonged to Near. As Matt had suggested the previous day, Near took his "revenge" on Linda by putting cake in her face. He did not smash her face with cake, as one was supposed to do according to Matt's newly founded tradition, but actually smeared it on her face, as Near was not as aggressive as the person who had caked him. When he turned to Matt to wipe the remainder of the cake on his hands on the boy's face, he found Matt had already shoved a piece of cake into his face, as he had the day before.

The way the three children laughed that day would give a person the impression that they were old friends. When the three looked back on this day, however, not one of them recalled laughing with one another in such a way. All they could remember were soft, polite smiles.

_**Thank you for reading! I have no idea how I feel about this chapter, actually. They seemed too immediately chummy. I don't know, what do you think?**_

_**Once more, thank you very much for reading this (I know it was a bit... lengthy). Please review!**_


	2. In Which Linda Doubts Her Sanity

_ "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." - James Earl Jones_

Linda was a lonely little girl, one could say. She was an affable person, yes, and many people would indeed approach her and say, "Hello, how are you?" and start chatting about the weather or something, even if they didn't know her. She wasn't really annoyed by people who wanted to talk to her and be her friends, but she wished that, just once, she had been the one to start the conversation with a stranger about the weather. Her "friends" would always talk to her because they felt she would listen, but Linda didn't feel that any of these people would _really listen _to her.

So, not feeling very close to her living friends, Linda decided to take Anne Frank's approach and keep a journal.

_The twenty-ninth of August, in the year 2000_

_Journal-_

_It still feels odd to address a journal before beginning my entry. Would you mind if I didn't put "journal" first? I mean, it's obviously for you, journal, and I don't feel it's necessary. This is much worse. I have decided no longer to start each journal entry like it's letter, but now I'm talking to the journal as if it really is a letter. This must be one of the warning signs of insanity._

_Anyway, today is my birthday. I am nine years old, and not a day less or more. Here in Wammy's there's this tradition where the person whose birthday it is has to be smashed in the face with cake, so I got a face-full of cake as a birthday present._

_I met these two boys yesterday. Actually, I already knew one of them, but it felt more like I was meeting him for the first time yesterday than it did when I first arrived. His name is Matt, and he's the one who told me about the face-in-cake tradition. He told me at the birthday party yesterday, which brings me to the best part. The birthday party was for a boy named Near, and he seemed really awesome. I smashed in the face with cake, but I didn't say so. I think he thinks Matt did it. But anyway, today at my party, Near smashed cake in my face._

_I don't know why, but I seem to have gotten a really good first impression on him. I think he might be my first real friend here. And maybe Matt, too, he seemed pretty cool, but I don't know._

_It still feels weird here. All the kids are so amazing, I think they might've made a mistake when they said I was supposed to be here. All I can do good well is art stuff._

_I don't miss Mommy or Daddy. They weren't nice to me; but on TV, no matter how mean the folks are, the kid still sorta misses them. I thought I would be like that. Maybe I really am insane.._

_- "Linda"_


	3. In Which Mello and Matt Have a Chat

_ "Forget love – I'd rather fall in chocolate!" - Sandra S. Dykes_

When one has a best friend, that person's best friend usually wants to look out for them. This includes sticking up for them in a fight, helping them when they are sick or hurt, and giving them advice, whether it is wanted or not. Mello was Matt's best friend, and he believed it was his duty to do these things; which explains why, as soon as Matt stepped into the room he and Mello shared, Mello inquired, "You were talking to Near today. Why?"

Matt turned his head and looked at his roommate curiously. "What do you mean?"

"You did the same thing yesterday. I thought you didn't like him," Mello continued.

"Oh. You mean at the birthday parties?"

"Yes, at the birthday parties. Just because I didn't attend doesn't mean I don't know what went on," Mello explained. He had been the previous four days, and was forced to remain in bed while all the other children enjoyed themselves, or at least gave Mello the impression that they were. He had been watching the days pass by without him from the bedroom window. He had taken a particular interest in seeing his best friend chatting it up with someone he allegedly hated.

"Mm, okay. Yeah, you have connections. You _know_ things," Matt weakly joked.

"Oh, yes, many connections. But none more trusting than these two little fellers here," he said, pointing to his eyes, "which enabled me to see out that window and into the yard, where two parties took place, and during both of which you were conversing with _Near_. Don't try to change the subject," he finished.

"The way you play up your eyes makes it seem like detectives need to have 20-20 vision," Matt mumbled. Then to Mello he said, "I wasn't talking to Near."

"What? Yeah, you were."

"Hm, well, he was _there_, so I guess I talked to him a little, but I was actually talking to Linda, that new girl."

Mello did not want to leave it at this, because he was in the mood for a good argument. "Why were you talking to her?"

Matt smirked. _"Is somebody jealous?"_ he thought. "I dunno. I just wanted to. Don't you wanna talk to her? She's just so... _approachable_, I guess is the word I'm looking for."

"Affable?" Mello offered.

"Sure," Matt agreed. His ever-present smile grew happier as he realized that Mello had just slipped up by not pursuing the argument further.

"Hm, I guess she is. But she's only, like, nine isn't she? Aren't most little kids easy to talk to?" Mello said quickly in an attempt to regain the argument.

"You're only two years older than she is. You really think that's a big enough gap to be callin' her a 'little kid'?"

Mello laughed. "Yeah, whatever, I guess you're right. What the hell. Hey, Matt, go get me some orange juice and Seven-Up."

"Why? You're not sick anymore, are you?" Matt, having only known Mello for about a year, was still one to question orders.

"Does it matter? Get me the orange juice and Seven-Up!" Mello growled.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, okay," Matt complied four times. He then left the room and returned about four minutes later with a bottle of generic lemon-lime soda, an orange, and a cup. He tossed all three at Mello, who caught the cup and the bottle of soda in his hands, but when he tried to catch the orange with his face, he realized his face didn't work that way.

Matt refrained from laughing, seeing as how the other boy had a cup and a bottle of soda in his hands for ammunition. Instead of laughing, he said, as calmly and seriously as he could, "They were out of what you wanted, but I improvised. The juice is inside that" – he pointed to the orange – "and I'm pretty sure Seven-Up is lemon-lime soda. So there y'are."

"Seven-Up isn't lemon-lime! But, whatever, okay, this'll do," Mello consented. He reached for his chocolate bar at this point, which he just couldn't find. "This so ain't gonna do! Where's my chocolate? Did you steal it, Matt? You'd better not've! That's... that's..."

Matt sighed bemusedly and began looking for his friend's chocolate bar. He knew how he was going to spending the next half hour. Perhaps he could amuse himself with thoughts of the chat he had had with Linda, for, as perplexed as he was by it, he wanted to talk to her again.


	4. In Which Matt Does His Laundry

_"Do I love you because you're beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you?" - Oscar _

_ Hammerstein II and Richard Rogers, Cinderella_

June 3, 2004

"If you keep doing that, you're really going to creep her out, you know," a familiar voice warned, snapping Matt out of his fantasies and back into reality.

Matt swiveled his head to face the one who had addressed him and said, "Huh? Mello, what do you mean? Doing what? Creep out whom?"

"L'artiste, Mademoiselle Linda. Vous cherchez à elle, et elle peut le trouver effrayant," Mello replied in French, to Matt's aggravation.

"Agh, why do you insist upon doing that?" Matt groaned. "You know I don't speak French! C'mon, pal, how 'bout Spanish, or Japanese, or Russian, or something that I at least _understand_."

Mello laughed at his friend's irritation. "You couldn't pick out the general meaning? Ha, well, that's what you get for choosing not to learn French. Didn't you at least get that first part? _L'artiste, Mademoiselle Linda_?"

"Um... 'Miss Linda'... 'the artist'? 'The artist, Miss Linda'? That what you said?" Matt guessed.

"Yeah, now try the second part," Mello said with an evil grin.

"Ah, forget it. It must not've been important enough for English, anyway," Matt said lazily, and he slipped back into what he had been doing prior to Mello's interruption.

Not even a good ten seconds passed before Mello couldn't stand to simply be a bystander any longer. "Ma-att..." he said in a teasing, sing-song voice, "I think she's noticed..."

Matt turned a bored head towards his friend. "What do you mean?" He quickly added, "In _English_."

"Yeah, yeah, English," he agreed, but muttered under his breath, "What happened to Spanish, Japanese, and Russian?" To Matt, he said, "I think Linda's seen you staring at her. You've become quite the creep lately, the way you just gawk at her all the time."

Matt tried to play dumb, which never really works out well for geniuses. "Staring at her? Gawking at her all the time? What do you mean? I have not been."

"Don't act stupid. It makes you look... stupid." Mello sat down on the grass next to his friend underneath the large willow tree which was annoyingly casting its shade the wrong way. "Why the hell you sitting here anyway? Damn, I mean, there've got to be better vantage points in the yard for you to watch her play soccer. The grass is wet, anyway."

Matt cast an annoyed glance at the other boy, and Mello thought that maybe his complaint had been uncalled for. Matt didn't say anything to signify his annoyance though, and simply said, "Sure. Let's go inside, it's too bright out here." He stood up and stretched his leg to see the back of it. "Crap. Grass stains."

Mello stood up, too, although it kind of bugged him that he was already having to stand after having just sat down. "Grass stains? So?"

"So, I just found these at the bottom of my closet, an-"

"I didn't know you could even make it to the bottom of your closet!" Mello interjected, making a lame joke about Matt's messy closet because it was one of those situations where you just have to.

"Yeah, I had to whip out my machete just to get there," Matt laughed, going along with the because-you-must joke. Then he continued with what he had originally been saying: "I found these jeans, and they're my last clean, intact ones. I almost had a record, there! Two and a half months without having to do laundry! So close, but, ah, no, now I'm out of pants. Even my pajamas. I am forced to do my laundry now. You know how Roger gets about dirty clothes..."

"So what're you going to wear when you're doing your laundry, then?" Mello knew the solution, but he just wanted to put Matt in an interesting position like that.

"... Good point," Matt said.

"Shall I barricade the door while you sit in the laundry room for three hours till everything's all washed and dried?"

"Um..."

"Hmm?" Mello's deceptive mind wonderfully enabled him to hide his smile.

"Well, couldn't I... Two months is a long time. I have a lot of laundry. I'll do multiple loads and wear the clothes I have on now until one load is done drying. Then I can change."

"Yeah, yeah, nice plan. Damn, I had a good one next, too!" Mello allowed a smile to slide onto his face, and the two boys walked inside the mansion, heading for their room.

Matt's laundry was certainly quite the task. Before he even realized what he was doing, Mello found himself helping load clothes into large, black garbage bags to haul over to the laundry room.

"Damn, Matt, I didn't even know you had this many clothes," Mello finally complained once the fourth bag was filled.

"Actually, those three are filled with _your_ dirty clothes," Matt snickered, gesturing to three of the large bags sitting near the door.

"You're an awful liar, you know that?"

"It was clearly a joke, but isn't being a bad liar a good thing? It means I'm out of practice; I'm an honest person."

"You can say that, but we both know it's just because at night while you sleep, I attach a machine to your head that sucks all the lying-talent that may have somehow accumulated in your brain, and I pump it all into my brain to ensure that I remain a good liar," Mello said in voice that was so serious he had to be joking as he snatched the last item of clothing off the ground and stuffed it into the final bag.

"So that's why I have a headache every morning."

"Actually, that's because I need to drug you in order to siphon your skills, and the headaches are a side effect."

"I see. Oh, you, always with your evil schemes."

"Hey, it's not evil. The ends justify the means, right?"

"Yeah, okay. So having five bags of clean clothes will make up for having to clean five bags of dirty clothes?"

"Laundry isn't that hard, ya pansy," Mello said. He then picked up two of the enormous bags and kicked another as he walked down the hall towards the laundry, which, to Matt, actually looked a little hard. Matt followed his friend's slow pace while carrying two large bags of his own.

Once they were in the laundry room, Matt and Mello were met with a pleasant surprise: no one else was in the room. For the first time in who knows how long, there was not a single person using the laundry room. None of the machines were even running.

"Well, this is spooky," Matt commented, placing one bag on the ground and lifting another onto a table in the middle of the room.

"You're telling me. With no one in here... It's as if you can feel the lonely spirits haunting this house poking their heads in, curiously watching us."

"Yeah, something like that..." That was a bit of a nut-job thing to say. It was just an empty room with washing machines and dryers in it, not a crypt or someplace equally likely to be haunted.

Matt began taking the clothes out of the bag. It pained him slightly to already be unpacking after having just completed loading everything up. He grabbed some of the pre-wash cleaner and prepared to scrub the clothes. Mello waited for him to get the cleaner, then helped him scrub the stains on his clothes. After about a minute and a half, Mello's arm grew tired of the monotonous scrubbing, and he decided to rest it. Without having his arm to exercise, though, Mello felt sort of lazy. So, he figured he might as well give his jaw a decent workout.

"So, Matt, do _you_ think Linda noticed your staring?" he asked mischievously.

"I don't know. I mean, I hope not. I kinda hope she did, too, though, just so I wouldn't have to keep it a secret from her anymore and all. But I'm absolutely fine with her not knowing. With it not being out in the open." Matt sighed.

"Ah, I see. You know, I'm not so sure how well you've kept it from 'not being out in the open.'"

"What do you mean?"

"There you are, doing that dumb thing again!" Mello groaned. "What do I mean? What do you think I mean?"

"I think you mean," Matt began innocently, "I think you mean it's obvious that I have feelings for her."

"Bingo, Matt. The way you look at her all the time, the way you manage to slide her into casual conversation about the price of rice in China-"

"You're really never going to get over that, are you?" Matt commented. There really had been a conversation about the price of rice in China, and Matt had really managed to bring up the subject of Linda during said conversation.

"Of course not! If I did, that would be one less thing I have to use in my argument about why it's obvious that you like Linda," Mello said.

"Okay, so it's obvious. Were you going someplace with that?"

Mello just sighed. "Why do you like her so much anyway?"

"Have you met her, Mello?" Matt gasped. "I mean, for one, well, look at her!" He seemed to be forgetting that they were in a room with no other people and no windows, and he moved his arms as if gesturing towards her.

"I've seen her. Yes?"

"She's so pretty!"

"She's just an average-looking girl. With pigtails."

"I wouldn't say average. She's not very average at all."

"How? In what ways is she not average?" Mello asked.

"Well, she's the best living artist in the world, for one," Matt explained.

"Ah, all a matter of opinion," Mello commented.

Ignoring this, Matt went on. He didn't care whom he was talking to now; it could have been an ear of corn. He wanted to get the words out. "And she's nice, and she has a sense of humor, and she'll play five whole rounds of SuperMario with me before stopping, and she likes fish, and she won't just yell at Near about how weird he is, and she remembered I still celebrate American holidays and celebrated with me on Fourth of July last year, and she doesn't try to get people in trouble, and she's nice to the new kids who cry all the time and bug everyone, and she knows how to double-dutch, and she chews her lip all the time in some cute little way, and she plays sports, and she doesn't know how to dance but doesn't care, and she painted her face to look like a tiger with the little kids that one time, and-"

"Yeah, damn, Matt! My ears are bleeding! Bad idea to bring up that subject," Mello cut in before Matt lost his voice. "Okay, she's great. But why're all those things so great? Hell, I can double-dutch, and you ain't head-over-heels about me."

Matt smirked. "Because..." He sounded like he actually knew the reason, but his voice just trailed off.

"... Because that's just how you see her?" Mello guessed. He wasn't really looking for an answer.

Matt nodded, still smiling. He was quiet for a moment, letting himself become lost in the the stain he was soaking, before piping up, "Hey, Mello, you ready to help me out now?"

_Why'd I have to cut him off while he was talking about Linda?_ Mello asked himself. He reluctantly agreed to go back to work. "But if I'm still scrubbin' your dirty clothes in an hour, your body will not be found," he jokingly warned.

"That'll be because I'm hiding from the authorities because I'm suspected to have been your murderer," Matt quickly replied.

"En fin de compte, je suis sûr que nous avions le vent jusqu'à mort," Mello laughed.

"Enough of your damn French," said Matt.

_**Author's Note: About time, I must say. I can't believe how much I put this off. Well, Ouran-Skellington, if you're reading this, you now have your answer: Yes, Mello will play a role. **_

_**Thank you very much for reading! I apologize for the ridiculously short previous two chapters. I'm not going to make any promises about the length of chapters, because then I'll feel obligated to honor my promise. **_

_**And by the way, I don't own SevenUp. I forgot to put that last time. Sorry. Hey, it's free advertising. They like that, yes?**_

_**Thank you once more! Please review!**_


	5. In Where There is Art in Language Arts

_"In art the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can inspire." -Ralph Waldo Emerson_

Linda re-entered the house after a nice – the word "nice" is used very loosely here – game of soccer. Her gray sweatshirt was tied around her waist, and she was breathing very hard. _Who says I don't have asthma?_she thought. _I could have exercise-induced asthma, anyway._ Perhaps claiming to be an asthmatic was a little much, and Linda decided to go to fetch a glass of water to help her breathing instead of trying to persuade Roger once more that she might need an inhaler.

Linda downed the water the way a college boy would down a beer, and, convincing herself she felt better, she headed off to her room to change out of the sweaty clothes.

Always being a little paranoid that someone would come in while she was changing her clothes, Linda stood next to her locked door, prepared to slam it shut in case somebody managed to open the door. Her paranoia was assigned the blame when she slammed against the door while pulling a fresh shirt over her head. She'd heard footsteps heading for her door, and was positive she'd heard the doorknob jangle.

"Are you okay, Miss Linda?" a female voice asked from outside her door.

"Oh, um..." Linda, realizing it was just one of the caretakers in the House, and that they never entered rooms without knocking, became flustered and embarrassed. "Ye-yes. I'm fine. I just slipped."

"Okay, well, you be careful, dearie," the caretaker said.

"Yes, of course," Linda replied. When she heard the retreating footsteps she assumed belonged to the caretaker, she laughed at her stupidity. _The dumbest child prodigy here, I am._

The moment she was fully dressed and ready to exit her room in search of entertainment, a deafening bell rang throughout the House. "Agh," Linda groaned. The bell signified the end of the third class and the beginning of the fourth class. The class schedules were set up similarly to that of a high school, in which there were nine class periods every day, and a bell would ring to signal the ends and beginnings of these classes. The children were given the number of classes they were thought to need, and the rest were "free periods." Many children had all nine classes (you can call them the lucky ones, if you want), but Linda only had seven classes. She had no third class and no ninth class, and she was extraordinarily thankful for the breaks.

Linda's fourth class was Language Arts. This, however, was not the language arts taught to you in the third grade. This was literally the art of the English language. Topics Linda found to be insane and useless were taught in this class, such as why the letters of the alphabet are in the order they are and the de-evolution of the language.

The current lesson was written on the board for all the students to read and dread: "The Difference Between Colloquial and Slang Terms of the Sixteenth Century." Linda sluggishly trudged to her chosen seat in the back of the fifth row. The message on the board had definitely achieved its goal: Linda was dreading the beginning of the class.

When she looked down at her desk, though, she perked up. There were smudge marks on it, and it was evident that someone had been drawing on the desk, but had erased it to keep others from seeing. Linda knew exactly who the artist that had drawn on the desk was, of course. You've probably already figured as much, but in case you haven't, Linda was the culprit.

Why exactly would seeing the smudged remainders of her previous drawings interest her? Because she remembered what the drawings were of. And remembering what the drawings were of made her remember why she secretly liked her Language Arts class.

As a wide smile that she was completely unable to hide took over Linda's face, into the classroom came the reason for her happiness: _Near_. Near calmly took his assigned seat, which, as luck would have it, was right in front of Linda. Linda stared at the hair gently falling off his head, white as the stolen drawing paper she kept hidden under her bed. She took careful note of how each wad of hair curled and waved, and her pencil-wielding hand followed these observations as she began to draw the back of his head.

Linda remembered the day she had discovered she would be sharing a class with Near, something that had never happened before. She had been complaining to Near (though she didn't like to call it that) about how hard and boring she suspected her Language Arts class would be, when Near surprised her by saying he, too, had that class. Linda fainted from blissful surprise – but only in her mind.

She and Near never talked in the class, though that meant nothing, because the fearsome teacher was strictly against any chatter in his classroom, and not a single student had ever been rumored to have broken that rule. Outside of class, though, they would chat it up about their opinions on the class... sort of. Linda would tell Near everything she thought about the class, and Near, being _such a good listener_, would politely not interrupt her and let her talk. Linda always looked forward to talking to him after class.

"And an 'ace,' can anyone tell me what an 'ace' was according to sixteenth century colloquial terminology?" the monotonous teacher droned. "Anyone?" He, as most teachers seem to do, was ignoring the hands of the know-it-alls that were eagerly waving in the air, and was instead looking hungrily for an unsuspecting student to prey upon. "Linda? Do you know?"

Linda poked her head down from the clouds it had been lost in, and meekly asked, "Do I know... what, exactly?" She felt she could hear the suppressed laughter of her fellow students, and her cheeks became hot.

"Do you know what the word 'attentive' means?" the teacher asked.

Linda nodded slowly, not sure if she should be liking where this was going. "It means to be paying attention."

"Very good," said the teacher, his voice devoid of anything that would indicate whether he meant it or not, "since you're so good with words and their definitions, perhaps you could tell me what 'ace' means according to sixteenth century colloquial terminology."

"Um..." Linda wasn't sure any of the students in the class could. The know-it-alls probably only acted as if they could because they knew there was no chance they would have to answer. "'Ace' means... trick...ster?"

"No," he said, "'ace' refers to the one on a die. That being said, perhaps you can decipher what 'ames-ace' means?"

"Can I get a hint?" Linda said softly, but afraid she would get in trouble for her remark, she quickly followed with, "It's the person who rolls a one. 'Ame's ace'."

"No, no, no," the teacher responded. "Perhaps someone else can tell me?" He once more began prowling the class for an oblivious child. Target sighted. "You, Matt, can tell me, can you not? What 'ames ace' means?"

"Uh, yeah," Matt said. He was taking a guess that he knew what it meant. "It means," he began rolling his hand in a circle in the air as if trying to make the air spin so fast that the answer flew out and hit him in the face, "trying to get a one on a die?"

"Wrong." The teacher was loving this. So many children, just ready to be seen as idiots in front of the other stupid geniuses in their class. "'Ames-ace,' rolling two ones when two dice are thrown. Snake eyes." The teacher eyed the two children who had gotten the answer wrong. "Got that?" A few heads nodded their understanding, and Linda pretending to be taking notes on what the teacher was saying. In truth, she was adding the finishing touches to her portrait of the back of Near's head.

When it was completed, she looked at it closely, comparing it to head in front of her. She decided it was perfect enough. It was. And, having finished that, she moved on to drawing his face. Once she had done that, she drew Near standing, something which always looked sort of unnatural for him. And after that, she drew Near in a different pose, then another.

Had Near turned around at all during the class, he would have seen his face staring back at him. He was covering her desk. This was what normally happened during Language Arts, though. Linda was glad he always sat face forward.

After a couple of eternities passed in the class, the bell to leave finally rang. Linda frantically erased what was on the desk, and scurried to join the flock of students leaving the classroom. She spied Near mixed in with the crowd, and she thought to herself, _If only classes were over for today. If only there were time to talk to him_... _That's a shame._

Speeding as fast as a drunk snail to her next class, Linda was inevitably late. It hardly mattered, though. In the Wammy's House, tardies were tolerable, and absences were accepted. It was unlikely that any child would be trying to skip class, a chance to further their knowledge, given how competitive the school was. So, knowing she would not be yelled at as long as she did not disturb the class with her entry, Linda slunk into the classroom, taking her seat quietly.

There was a much more vigilant professor giving a lecture to this class, and Linda knew she would be unable to draw her pictures with the confidence that she would not be caught like she did in her other class. It was a sign language class, after all. Pencils were not particularly needed.

Managing to make it through her sign language class without falling asleep – something she was very proud of – Linda gleefully sprang out of the classroom at the sound of the bell, heading for what was easily her favorite class of the day: her art class.

"Children, new assignment today," the eccentric art teacher said once all her students were assembled in the classroom. "Actually, it would make more sense to announce this at the end of class, but too late, eh? I've already told you we have a new assignment. And I'd hate to leave y'all hanging. Oh, the suspense that comes from an impending disaster! Not that any of you are allowed to create disasters for your assignments! I want each and every one of you to bring in beautiful works of art. And so you shall. Shan't you? Bah, 'tis not even a question; you shall, you shall! And why? Why, because you are all _wonderful_ artists, who, under my instruction, shall become the next Vincent Van Gogh or Georgia O'Keefe! Or even the next child to star in his or her own cartoon in which he or she possesses a magic purple crayon! Yes, yes! What wonderful little flowers we have! And that is a metaphor, my children. You are the flowers! You! A rose! You! A poppy! You! An orchid! You! A daffodil! You all, a wonderful, beautiful bouquet! I am proud to be your instructor!" The teacher finally paused, allowing her praise to sink in. Then she continued, "And now, of course, your assignment. You shall find this fairly easy, I hope. Here is what you must do: find a model, paint a wonderful portrait of him or her, and then recreate your portrait without color, using only lines, and make a paint-by-number project for someone less talented than you to use. That is the test: can the person using your paint-by-number make his or her painting look like yours? Ah, we'll see! Yes, we will see! Good luck!" The teacher surveyed the students. She decided most of them looked too confident to need luck. Oh well. That was fine. "Now... go find inspiration! But stay in the classroom!"

The children began to talk amongst one another about their new project. What better way to gain inspiration than to learn what is inspiring others, after all.

"Well, if we need to find a model, I think I'm all set," one rather cocky boy said. "I'll just do a self-portrait."

"You keep waiting for her to assign that, but she never does," a girl joked in response to the boy's declaration. "You're so narcissistic."

"Shut up," the boy grinned. "Who're you paintin'?"

"I don't know. Does it really matter? Maybe somebody with an afro... That'd be fun," the cheeky girl said.

"What style would you use? Would it be realistic? You're always changing," Linda piped up.

"I'm not sure. I think I'd like to do an impressionistic one this time. But that might be hard for the paint-by-number part... Maybe cubism?"

"Yeah, that'd work. I think I'm gonna stick with realistic, though," said Linda.

"But _all_ of your pieces of art are realistic. How about spicing things up, huh?" another girl, about a year or two older than Linda, said.

"But they're so... so amazing when they're realistic. It's like a picture, only more precious. I mean, if in the fraction of a second it takes to snap a photograph 1,000 words can be captured, imagine how many words can be captured in the tens of hours it takes to paint a picture," Linda argued.

"Yeah, whatever. Hey, if you got that all covered, y'know, the style and everything, who ya gonna paint?" the older girl inquired.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"If whom I ask is willing to be my model or not."

"Ya ain't just gonna get a pic out of book or nothing?" Not unless Linda plans on asking a book. Well, as we know, she does sort of talk to books...

"No, of course not. I want it to be an original painting, not something that's based on someone else's photographic talent. Besides, the professor said we needed a model. I think she meant we have to find an actual human to sit in front of us and be our models," Linda's voice was on the right side of whining.

"I think I'm gonna paint Einstein. Man, that mustache, that 'do, you can't pass it up!" the older girl informed the other children, deciding her conversation with Linda didn't need a response from her.

Linda didn't mind the other girl's rudeness. Her thoughts were elsewhere, anyway. She was staring at the clock, willing the hands to move faster.She hadn't developed the ability to control time overnight, though, and she had to sit in the class until the clock's hands moved to the places that alerted whoever sounded the bell to do so on their own.

Linda went through her seventh and eighth classes with only half her self focusing and paying attention. The other half was still trying in vain to speed up time. It seems that half of her self was a fool.

Her eighth class eventually ended, and she sped to the sitting room, where she knew she would find Near, who had no classes after the fifth class of the day, doing a puzzle or playing with dice. (When she thought that Near may be playing with dice, she became a little bitter, but soon got over it.) Indeed, he was in there, and he was, to Linda's relief, doing a puzzle.

Near looked up and Linda when she entered, knowing she was there for their daily discussion. He found sort of a melody in her voice, and her jabbering became like music to him while he played with his puzzle, so he never told her that he didn't want her there. He nodded at her, and she beamed back at him.

"So, Near, what's up?" Linda asked.

"I'm doing a puzzle. Again," Near calmly responded.

"Ha, you do that thing so many times, I bet you could do it with a blindfold on!" Linda was actually serious.

"I can." Near was serious as well.

"So, Near, guess what?" Linda didn't pause to give Near any time to guess, and this signaled him that the music was about to begin. "Today in art, we got this new assignment, and we have to paint a portrait of someone, and I don't want mine to be based on a photo, and I want it to look realistic. Somebody wants to paint a portrait of Einstein, but I have to say, I don't think that's a good idea. I wouldn't want my painting to be of Einstein, at least. And most of the pictures I've seen of him are in black and white, so if she wants him to actually have _color_, she's gonna have a tough time finding a good picture. And after we paint our portraits, we have to make it again, but only with lines, and we have to make one of those paint-by-number things. I think it'll be interestingly amusing, because after we do that, we have to give it to someone who's not as good at art as we are, and then he – or she – has to paint it in according to the numbers and everything, and that's how we'll be graded, by how good, I mean, how well the person painted according to our instructions and stuff. You know, how much his or hers looks likes the original. And anyway, I was kinda wondering if you'd be my model."

_That was a rather short song,_ thought Near.

**Author's Note: Ah, ta da! I finished this chapter. It feels like it took me a long time to write this. Hm, I dunno, it was just kinda hard to write.**

**In case you couldn't tell, I've never, ever, ever, ever, never written a love story before. I hardly even read love stories. The only ones I read are the ones they make us read at school. So, I don't have much experience with love stories. Yet I'm writing one. I don't know, I had this idea for a while, but it took me a while to get around to writing it. I was working on another story (which I later discovered was a waste of my time T.T) and this story kept saying, "Hey, bub, I'm gonna cut your hypothalamus if you don't write me!" Yes, my ideas threaten me.**

**And, thank you for reading so much of it that you made it down to here! X3 Please review!**


	6. In Which Linda Does Not Make a Sandwich

_"Love is a sweet tyranny, because the lover endureth his torments willingly." -Proverb_

Bubbling, practically overflowing with emotion, Linda threw herself on her unmade bed and pulled her private journal out of her pillowcase. She flipped it open and began writing so quickly that if one were to read her entry today, they would have a hard time making out what the words said.

She positively had to let out all this emotion inside her, though. This would be the best way to do so.

_4th of June, '04_

_Journal –_

_I CANNOT BELIEVE IT! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HAPPENED TODAY? NO, OF COURSE NOT, YOU'RE A STUPID JOURNAL MADE OUT OF PAPER AND YOU CAN'T THINK, SO OF COURSE YOU CAN'T HAVE IDEAS ABOUT MY DAY! Today we got this new assignment in art, and we had to find a model, and I asked Near to by model, and he said, and I quote, "YEAH, SURE." He agreed TWICE! "Yeah" and "sure"! It's nearly unbelievable! _

_On the downside, I didn't get to have much more of a conversation with him because THIS IS SO AMAZING that I'd forgotten how to talk. But oh well. There's still tomorrow._

_Wow! To be my model, he's gonna have to sit there for, like, an hour at a time while I paint! This is just too incredible. ART and NEAR at the same time!_

_And it's obvious that he agreed two times because secretly he wants to be with me for hours at a time. Probably. Man, why're there no psychics in this place?_

_I need to calm down, though. Ha! I think I've recovered my voice! Yup, I have! That's proof that I'm calming down._

_WHOA, I JUST REALIZED WHAT THIS MEANS! HOLY MACARONI, THAT'S AMAZING! Vital signs, vital signs, pinch, YES! I AM NOT DREAMING, AND I AM ALIVE! This is real!_

_I've gotta go back to Near. This is just too amazing! Wait, should I go back to him? I just ran out of the room smiling like my evil plot had just been accomplished. Oh no! He must think I'm weird now! Or that I've got a screw loose! Or what if that just gave it away that I like him? I don't know what to do! How embarrassing would any of those possibilities be? Aw, mannn..._

_But still, HOW GREAT IS THIS!_

_ME, LINDA_

Linda tried to control herself, and calmly closed her journal, returning it to its proper place inside her pillow. She took a few deep breaths and stood up to pace in her room while deciding what to do.

_Go back to the room with Near? Nah, I don't want to seem like he's the only one I want to spend time with, _Linda thought to herself. _But he kinda is,_ she argued. _What? No. I mean, I could go back outside with the soccer gang. They're fun,_ she thought, trying to convince herself that she did not like Near as much as she was insisting she did. _Yeah, but spending time with them can't even compare to hanging out with Near, can it, now? _It was almost a jest. _Yeah, well, I mean... Augh! This is ridiculous! How about... Oh, I don't know!_ The back and forth arguing between herself was as if she had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, and both were trying to convince her of what to do, just like in cartoons. Linda had no idea which side the angel or the demon would be arguing for, though, in this case.

"I need a sandwich," Linda said, choosing to cease her debate about whether to return to Near or not by telling herself she needed some food. Always a safe escape from an argument.

Upon walking into the kitchen, Linda saw an open jar of peanut butter sitting on the counter. Or at least what used to be peanut butter. The jar looked to be thoroughly cleaned of any peanut butter, and was now doomed to a life in a garbage heap. The poor thing.

"The least I can do is give it a proper burial," Linda muttered to herself. She plucked the jar off the counter and headed for the garbage can. By "a proper burial" Linda meant she would salute it after throwing it away.

The ceremony was nearly complete (Linda had brought her hand to her forehead), when she heard a voice coming from behind her say, "Aw, damn, where'd the peanut butter jar go?"

Linda turned around quickly, plastering an I'm-trying-too-hard-to-look-innocent-aren't-I smile to her face. She had to look suspicious. When she saw who it was, though, she let her guard down, and nonchalantly said, "Oh, hey, Matt. I, uh, kinda threw that away." _But it went down like a hero; that is, it was going to until you interrupted the ceremony,_ she added in her thoughts.

"Aw, why'd you do that?" Matt asked. He didn't seem mad, but curious. She knew he wouldn't be angry; he was too laid back, and he had never snapped at her before. In actuality, they were good friends.

"'Cause there was no more," Linda explained. Shouldn't that have been obvious?

"No, it's not that there was no more, it's that there wasn't any peanut butter in it yet."

"You were going to put peanut butter inside it?"

"Yeah, it's for my new business. I figure it'll make a killing. Homemade peanut butter, with all the profits going to orphans. Just put that on a sign, and people will be buying so much of my peanut butter that I'll put Jif and Skippy out of business!" Matt said enthusiastically.

Linda had to laugh. She didn't want to be rude, but Matt was always coming up with little get-rich-quick schemes, and eventually they just reached a comic level. "Yeah, you're bound to make some pretty nasty enemies in the peanut butter world, though."

"Nah, all my competitors will be buying my peanut butter, too." Matt looked past Linda to the garbage can and pointed to it. "The jar in there?"

"Oh, yes." Linda reached into the garbage can and pulled out the jar, which, thankfully, was sitting on the top of everything and not covered in anything disgusting. She handed the generally clean jar to Matt.

"Here, look," he said, "the label: 'Matt's Homemade Peanut Butter'. And then here on the back, 'Peanut butter made by scratch with all profits being given to orphans.'"

"Orphan_s_? Who are you sharing the money with?"

"My business partner," Matt said. Why wasn't his business partner's name anywhere on the jar, then?

"Who's that?" Linda felt she already knew.

"Mello." Yup, Linda was right.

"I see. But why sell peanut butter?" she asked. Why not sell lemonade, or cookies, or any of his old video games (yeah, right)? Hell, why not sell magic beans? Matt could think of selling anything. His ideas never went anywhere. They were just that: ideas.

"I'll sell peanut butter because it's good for the economy," Matt explained. Linda was much better at making her face look confused than innocent, and she used this skill to illustrate to Matt exactly what she was thinking. Matt elaborated, "It's summer, right? And in the summer a lot of fruit is ready to be harvested. With all this extra fruit in the summer, people start to think, 'Gee, what do I do with all this fruit?' They sell it. They make pies. They put it in candy bars. They dry it and save it for winter. They do all kinds of things with it, including turning it into jam. Well, with this jam, people want bread. With this bread, they either want toasters to eat toast with jam, or they want peanut butter to have PB and J sandwiches. With this peanut butter that practically screams 'charity,' people will be buying tons of it, and they'll want something to eat it with. So, they'll buy jam. Or celery or apples or something. But probably jam. And then the jam-making people will make more jam to keep up with the demand of it, and they'll make a lot of money. If these people are making a lot money, then the bread-making people will be making a lot of money. If companies are making a lot of money, they'll reduce the price of their products, and more people will be able to buy them. And then less people will be hungry, and they won't have to pay as much for groceries, thus having more money to spend on other things. The amount of people in poverty will drastically shrink, and everyone'll have more money. With more money, they buy more things, thus pumping up the economy and causing companies to lower the prices of their products, and the cycle continues. See? And meanwhile, I'm making quite a pretty penny. All I have to do is crush peanuts and add cinnamon and stuff, and I have easy peanut butter. It's an ingenious business opportunity, and I'm surprised other folks haven't taken advantage of it."

"Um, whoa, wow," Linda said. She was... "impressed" isn't exactly the right word to describe how she felt. Nor is "surprised." More like "flabbergasted." "What happens though," Linda began, her tone of voice indicating that she was about to contradict Matt, "if people start buying toasters with all the money they're saving? Then you won't make as much money, and the whole system crumbles."

"Huh? Well, people eat peanut butter on toast," Matt pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's not as common as jam. And what happens when summer is over? And wouldn't the roots of everything – the plants and animals that are required to produce this stuff – eventually burn out?"

"Then it'll be time to move on." Linda was glad she hadn't discouraged him. Even if this plan wasn't going to take off anyway.

"About moving on, I'm gonna move on from this subject. Do you know if there's any peanut butter right now? I want to make a sandwich."

Matt shook his head no. "I don't know if there's any peanut butter. Well, at least I don't have any. All I have is this jar." He once again held up the jar for her to see. "Actually, I have about a dozen of these jars, if you want one."

Linda laughed. "That's okay. Oh well, if there's no peanut butter I guess I can't really make a sandwich. They taste kinda weird with just the jelly. Or jam. Hey, do you know if there's any cheese?" Linda asked, opening the refrigerator to take a look.

"I know there's salami," Matt replied, striding over to stand behind Linda so that he too could see inside the fridge.

"I'm a vegetarian," said Linda, not bothering to turn to face the person she was speaking to.

_Note: Linda does not eat meat,_ Matt thought. _Since when?_ "Since when?"

"Since about forever ago." Then Linda slammed the refrigerator door shut and spun around. Finding Matt standing so closely behind her surprised her, and she jumped back, thus causing her to hit her head on the refrigerator's handle. "Ow..."

Matt, realizing that she had hurt herself because he was standing so close to her that it might seem a little creepy, took a step back to give Linda some space. Then he remembered that it was polite and gentleman-like to assist a lady when she was hurt, and he stepped forward, closing the gap between them once more. "Uh, you okay? Do you need some ice or something?"

Linda rubbed the back of her head and said, "I don't need any ice. I'm fine."

"Oh, uh, that's good." Matt stepped backwards again. This whole stepping routine was beginning to feel a little confusing. Where to step next?

"Uh-huh," she agreed. "Well, on the downside, not only did I hit my head, but there is no cheese. Guess I'm not making a sandwich."

"Guess not... Aren't you hungry?" Matt asked.

"No, not really," Linda replied. _Just looking for a distraction. Crap. Now I've remembered._

"Oh. Just sharpening your sandwich-making skills?" Matt asked innocently, not sarcastically.

This produced a little giggle from Linda. "Yup. I'm getting good."

"I'll bet. So..." he began, prepping himself for the question he had been wanting to ask her since the fourth class, which was the only class they shared, "today, in Language Arts, what... ah, what were you drawing... on the desk?" Matt sat two desks to the right of Linda, and had seen the artwork she was producing on her desk. He had his suspicions, and he wanted to hear them be denied.

Linda was puzzled as to why Matt seemed so nervous suddenly. Then she realized what his question had been. Then she realized that if it made him nervous to ask her this he was scared of what her response might be, which meant either a) he planned on snitching on her because she was drawing on the desk, or b) he had seen who she was drawing and this made him unhappy. She was fairly sure, though, that Matt was not the type of person to tell on somebody else, so she put her money on option b. As to why this might make him unhappy, she could only guess. "I was drawing various students." It was only a lie if you interpret "various" as being a word that implies different students were being drawn.

"Oh, that's cool. Yeah, they looked pretty good ," Matt said. His suspicions were still not completely dismissed, so in his voice remained an edge of nervousness.

"Oh, thanks. Well, I hope they would. I am in an accelerated art class, you know." Her tone was borderline bragging.

"I know. You replaced the cover of one of my video games with one that you drew that one time."

"Oh, yeah! I remember that! April Fool's Day!"

"Not much of a prank, though, because it looked exactly like the original one," said Matt, becoming calmer.

"When I drew it I didn't actually plan on making it a joke. I just wanted to see if you could tell a difference between the two of them. Then April Fool's Day came, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity," explained Linda.

"I couldn't. You had to tell me. Guess that art class is really something, huh?" Matt asked politely.

"Yeah. Right now we have this assignment in which we have to paint somebody's portrait, then recreate it without color to be a paint-by-numbers thing. Hey, when it's finished, you wanna do the paint-by-numbers?"

"That's like a coloring book, but they tell you which colors to use, right? I think I could handle that." Matt replied.

"Okay. You've got to do a good job, though, 'cause that's how they're grading it," Linda warned.

"Okay."

"Thanks."

"Who're ya painting? Can I see it now?"

"I haven't started yet. I just asked the person if he'll be my model."

"Who?"  
Linda knew Matt didn't exactly like Near, but he was going to find out sooner or later. "Near."

This confirmed all of Matt's worst suspicions.

**A/N: This probably isn't going to be much longer. Maybe three, no, four more chapters. And it might take a while for me to post them. My computer hates me right now, and I certainly return it's feelings. Sort of.**

**Anyway, I'm trying with this story. Like I said before, this is a new genre to me, so I'm sure how to go about it.**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	7. In Which Matt Needs a Plan of Action

_ "Inside my heart, there is a space. It twists and turns, it bleeds and aches. Inside my heart, there's an empty room. It's waiting for lightning. It's waiting for you." - Jewel Kilcher, "Absence of Fear"_

***Warning: Some swearing in this chapter ***

Matt walked past the doorway to the sitting room, in which he could see Near sitting. How fitting.

"Damn you, Near," he whispered. _Damn you, why does Linda have to like you so much? How can she even like you? You're a boring, dumb little twit who does nothing but play with toys. Even though you're not dumb. Hey, if I had a say in things, you would be, though!_

Matt angrily shoved his fists in his pockets and fantasized about how much it would pain Near if he woke up the next morning to discover all his toys' decapitated carcasses. He actually got a little laugh out of this cynical thought.

Perhaps Near sensed a disturbance in the Force, for when Matt walked past the room grumbling angrily and thinking evil thoughts, he looked up to observe Matt's actions.

_What could make him so mad? _He thought, just to seem normal in case any mind-readers happened to be using their powers on him at the moment. He knew exactly what could have made Matt so angry. _He knows Linda doesn't return his feelings, and that she instead projects those feelings towards me,_ he thought, deciding it was really rather boring to play dumb. _How juvenile of him_. Being one year younger than Matt, he was naturally an expert on what being mature was like, it seems.

_What are the odds that Matt will try to engage me in some sort of physical fight due to his anger? Hm, I would say there's only about a twelve percent chance of that happening, as Matt is neither a very aggressive person nor is he upset enough to do such a thing. That's good. I doubt I am strong enough to take him on, anyway, without coming out severely injured. Perhaps I should exercise more...? No, I doubt I will ever need to use a large amount of physical strength. _Near's motto was not "Better safe than sorry," but that would never be something he regretted.

In the kitchen, Linda sat, dumbfounded as to why Matt had stormed out of the kitchen after she told him that she would be painting a portrait of Near. Well, to take a quote from her diary, the people who had determined her to be a child prodigy "might've made a mistake when they said I was supposed to be here. All I can do good well is art stuff." Her grammar may have improved over the years, but she was still unsure she was fit to be there.

"Damn it! Mello, I know exactly how you feel," Matt said as he flopped himself down on his bed.

Mello looked up from his essay at Matt. "What do you mean?"

"That fucking little twerp Near! Now I'm competing with the little loser, too. And, damn, I don't stand a chance!" Matt nearly yelled.

"This about Linda?" Mello asked, his voice bored.

"Damn right, it is! She – ah, she likes Near, Mello, Near!" Matt was transitioning out of the "angry" phase and into the "depressed" phase.

"Let's make this quick. I'm kinda busy, so I don't have time to contradict everything you say. Everybody knows that Linda likes Near, the same way everybody knows that you like Linda, and, look, everybody knows everything there is to know in this place, okay? It seems that you – and probably that airhead you're infatuated with – are the only one who doesn't see this stuff. You want Linda to like you? Okay, go do something about it." Mello's tone gradually increased in aggravation as he explained to Matt.

Matt was silent for a few moments after Mello said this, contemplating on what he had just heard and how best to react. He finally decided the most appropriate response would be: "Shiiiiiit. You mean _everybody_ knows. And is everybody included in that 'everybody'?"

"There's me and all the other people who actually notice what's going on, so yeah, that's everybody 'sides you and Linda," Mello said passively; he was trying to focus on his essay.

"That includes Near, then?" Matt, being oblivious to Mello's shut-up-and-let-me-word tone of voice, asked.

"Yeah, that includes Near! Now, shut up, and let me work!"

"Oh..." _Then I guess I'm prepared to put myself into a little predicament._ Matt, having heard confirmation from his best friend that Near did in fact know what he'd hoped no one other than himself and Mello knew, decided it was time to concoct a plan. And that plan would have a name. And that name would be "Operation: Near Is a Loser, And I Must Somehow Convince Linda That I Am Not." It may as well have been called "Mission: Impossible."

**A/N: I know this one was kind of short. Okay, it was about two and a half pages shorter than is my norm. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am probably going to updating like crazy so that I can get this story done without putting it off for a year. I have the rest of the story planned out, though, so I can (maybe, possibly, I might bet against it) finish it quickly.**


	8. In Which Mello Consoles

_"A true friend is the one who walks in when others walk out." - Unknown_

When Matt came up with the name "Operation: Near Is a Loser, And I Must Somehow Convince Linda That I Am Not," he imagined that the entire plan would be something that would make a great montage with background music from some 1980's rock band. When his plan was put into action, however, it wouldn't have made the best montage. In fact, it probably would have been deemed unworthy of a montage at all.

_Six o'clock PM, June 5th, 2004_

It had taken Linda a good half an hour to prepare her canvas. It had then taken her another twenty-two minutes to find the art supplies she had managed to lose within the previous half hour. She had originally planned to begin her work at five o'clock, but, having not made the necessary preparations before that time, was forced to postpone this time until everything was ready. And finally at six o'clock, everything was.

"Oh, Near, I'm so sorry it took me so long. I'm ready now, though. Thanks for waiting," Linda apologized to her model, who was sitting on the floor with a Rubik's cube, having remained stationary except for small hand motions as he fiddled with the toy and blinking for the last hour.

"It's fine," Near responded, his eyes still glued to the toy.

Linda smiled shyly. _He's so understanding,_ she thought. Then she grabbed her pencil and began delicately sketching out the image in front of her on the canvas. She smirked as she drew Near's figure. _Lucky me, I have lots of experience_. Then she felt painful embarrassment, feeling pathetic for drawing Near so much that it was becoming easy. _Gah, I'm such a loser._

After about ten minutes passed in silence, Linda stepped back from her canvas to see how it looked so far. "Not bad, I must say, not bad," she commented on her own work.

"That's good," Near said, thinking she wanted him to reply.

Linda smiled again. "You wanna see how it looks so far?" she eagerly asked.

"No, I'll see it when you are done for the day," said Near.

"Oh, okay," Linda said cheerfully, "I'm not done sketching, anyway."

It was only about two minutes before Linda once again broke the silence. "I can't seem to get your hair just right," she said, even though this is more of something that should be mumbled. She stared at her painting, trying to decide what to do. "Bah, it's good enough for now."

"If there's room for improvement," Near interrupted, "then it's _not_ good enough."

"True... Oh, it'll look fine once I start painting," Linda said, getting back to her art. "Anyway, this part isn't my test..."

Another hour passed with Linda pausing every few minutes to comment on her progress, and Near would respond as if he knew what she was talking about. Linda had finished sketching when she decided she was done for the day. Normally, she would have gotten much further, but she was distracted by her company in the room.

"Okay, that's a wrap for today, Near!" she exclaimed suddenly.

Near kept his head down and continued his fiddling with the Rubik's cube (which he had solved over two hundred times during the past two hours), and said, "So, I am allowed to move?"

"Yup. Till tomorrow, of course." Linda carefully put away all her supplies, including the paint she hadn't used at all that day.

"Okay." Near stood up, not bothering to stretch or do anything that one would expect someone who had just been sitting in the same position for two hours to do. "I would like to see the painting so far."

"Oh, okay. Well, I mean it's not a painting yet, or anything, it's just a rough sketch of... just a rough sketch of you sitting there. And, y'know, some background stuff I put in, and, uh, there're some little notes I put on the side over here, but, yeah, it's all in pencil so far," Linda rambled, nervous about how Near would find the painting.

Near, finding this particular song Linda was singing to be a little too jumpy for his taste, strode over to the canvas so he could take a good look at it. "I see. Yes, this looks like me. It looks nice," he complimented, although his tone was no different than it would have been if he were telling her that it was raining in Moscow but not in Honolulu.

Linda nearly swooned after hearing those words escape Near's lips. _It's looks nice! It looks like him! He likes it!_ She had always known she was a talented artist, as many people had previously told her so, but to know that _Near_ held the same opinion made something burst and fill her up inside. It was happiness. "You, you like it?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

Linda beamed. _How... how amazing..._

Matt, feeling very much like a super-spy with his secret mission that had been given a super-spy name, was watching Linda and Near, hidden behind the wall that separated the room they were in from the hallway. Near had just said he liked Linda's artwork, and Linda appeared to be extremely thrilled by this. _Not good_, Matt thought.

Yes, it may seem a little creepy that Matt was watching them, but he was, after all, in a super-spy mood... and he was unable to come up with an actual plan, so this would have to do.

Matt continued to watch the two, wondering what would happen next. Specifically, he wanted to know how Linda planned on reacting (once she relaxed a bit and was able to actually react in a way other than smiling like she had just bought five winning lottery tickets). Because Matt doesn't have the best of luck, what happened when Linda did snap out of this state of elation was negative ten on the list of things he wanted to happen.

Linda let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a giggle. Then she leaned towards Near and kissed him. It was only on the cheek, but this was more than enough to infuriate Matt.

"Daaaaaaamn you, Near," Matt cursed under his breath. "Damn." He clenched his hands into fists and slammed them into his knees. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn." He let his chin fall against his chest and cursed about twelve more times, using a vocabulary a little more colorful than just "damn."

He sat there for a few more minutes, then he got up and walked back to his bedroom, planning to sulk while playing his practically centuries old Scooby Doo video game. He didn't the chance to play his game, though – he did have plenty of time to sulk on his way to his room – because somebody intervened first.

Matt opened the door to his bedroom slowly, letting the awful creaking noise the old door hinges made continue until the door would open no more.

"Ah, damn it, Matt! You know how annoying that sound is!" Mello complained when the door was opened.

_Does this guy ever leave this room?_ Matt wondered angrily. "Oops," he said, not caring enough to change his tone of voice to indicate whether he meant it or not.

"Matt?" Mello said when he realized how upset his friend was. "What's up? What happened?"

This was all it took for Matt to come undone. He took a deep, shaky breath and began to relay the story of what he had seen to Mello.

Mello was silent for a few moments after Matt finished his story, taking in what had been said and how it had clearly made his best friend feel. Then: "One more reason Near is an asshole."

Matt fell down on his bed and mumbled his agreement.

"That's really rough, man..." Mello was unsure how to go about this. He wanted to console his friend, but this was something he was never faced with before, thus he was unsure how to go about it. He racked his brain for what to say, then, unable to come up with anything that sounded like it might belong on a Hallmark card, simply said the first words his tongue formed: "Don't worry, Matt. Near is boring, and once Linda sees that she'll get past him and go out with you."

"Yeah, yeah," Matt muttered. "But, Mello, I think that's why she likes him. He's like a blank little canvas for her, and she likes coloring things in." Then he whispered so softly it was almost a thought, "_Mi bella artista._"

This sparked something in Mello's brain. "Matt, just show her that you're more colorful than Near, then. If she likes him because that's just the way her artist mind works, I'm sure she'd find a rainbow more interesting than a cloud."

_Nice analogy_, Matt thought sarcastically. He sat up. "You know that the gay pride flag is a rainbow, right? I don't think that's the kind of message I want to send her." At least he wasn't depressed enough not to make a joke.

"Hey, I'm trying to be a good friend by offering you some advice, okay!" Mello growled, not liking that his brilliant idea – not to mention that analogy he'd come up with – was being thrown in the trash by Matt. "Linda likes Near, and Near does nothing," Mello said.

"That's an awful way to cheer me up," Matt commented, "tell me that the girl of my dreams likes someone who doesn't even have to do anything to win her affections."

"No, no, I wasn't done talking! See, Near does _nothing_. Nothing at all. It's a wonder that guy even breathes, he does so little. Just go do _something_ for her."

"Like what? What could I do to make her like me?" Matt didn't feel the need to tell Mello about Operation: Near Is a Loser, And I Must Somehow Convince Linda That I Am Not.

"Like anyth... Man, Matt, some genius you are. Just tell her how you feel," Mello advised.

"That's like the worst thing I could do! It's obvious that she likes Near," Matt cried.

"Maybe not. I'm not stupid. I know how people work. You tell her, she'll probably reject you – " Matt scoffed " – but she'll think about what you said."

Matt was quiet. Hell, he felt bad enough now, he probably had no lower to go. Except clinical depression ending in suicide, but that was probably a bit extreme, and Matt ruled out the possibility of that happening. If Linda thought about what he said... She would think about how he felt, and then maybe, possibly...

Matt finally decided to adopt a what-else-have-I-got-to-lost attitude, and said, "Okay."

_**A/N: Thank you to Escaping Dreams for reviewing ^^ I practically used your review word-for-word in this chapter :/ So that means there are TWO quotes in this chapter X) **_

_**I'm killing the emoticons, aren't I?**_

_**Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please review!**_


	9. In Which Matt Knows

_ "... To die, to sleep – No more – and by sleep to say that we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." -Hamlet, from the play written by William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

It was pep-talk time for Matt. "Okay, I can do this," he said to himself. "I can do this, I've got this." While trying to verbally convince himself he could do this, he could walk straight up to Linda and confess his feelings, he was trying to mentally remember how to breathe. _Inhale, then exhale, then inhale, then exhale. And keep it going. _Nervousness can be like a virus, taking over the host and destroying it. You've got to fight back.

"It's okay. I can handle this. I can completely handle this." _Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale._ "All I've got to do is walk up to her and say, 'Linda, I like you.'" Then he muttered, "That may take some clarification." _Inhale, exhale, steady breathing, calm and steady breathing, inhale..._ "But, I can do this. It's as simple as pie. And pie is good! So this is good! And good things are certainly good!" It was becoming less like a pep-talk and more like procrastination. _Exhale slowly, inhale slowly, steadily._ "Ah, damn it! Enough! I _can_ do this, I _will _do this, and there's a pretty high chance that I'll _survive_ doing this. Okay." _Exhale, and... March!_

And indeed, he began marching. Only a few steps, but still a notable act. Linda was in her room. Matt knew this for a fact because he had seen her walk in there. Matt strode up to the door, and clenched his hands into tight fists. Realizing what he was doing and that you only need one loose fist to knock on a door, he unclenched one hand and loosened the other. _Inhale, inhale, slowly exhale._ He raised his fist up to the door. _Knock, knock._

He jumped back when he heard something slam against the door. "Don't come in!" Linda's voice called.

"Um, Linda," he began cautiously, "you all right?"

"Hold on!" she called. Matt could only imagine what she was doing in her room, but then wished that he hadn't. _How about I just dismiss this situation with a sarcastic "girls..." accompanied by an eye roll, _ he thought.

"Girls..." he muttered, and rolled his eyes.

Matt stood there in the hallway, giving the outward appearance that he was impatiently waiting for Linda to finally come answer the door, but inside he was taking every second that she didn't answer as a gift from the gods.

Finally, though, the gods went back to their stingy behaviors, and Linda opened the door. "Oh, hey, Matt. Yeah, I was changing my clothes, so..."

"Right, right. Um, can I come in?" he asked, working hard to keep his voice steady.

"Mm-hm," she said, nodding. Matt smiled a thank you and stepped into her room. When he entered, it hit him that he had never been in her room before. It didn't really look any different from his own room, but its smell was different. It smelled... Matt couldn't think of any other adjective to use to describe it besides "girly." Like perfume, and flowers, and laundry detergent, and commercials with puppies in them (if they had a scent).

While standing in awe of the realization of the scent that commercials with puppies had, Linda stared at him, wondering what was going on. She was beginning to feel a little awkward, and tried to break Matt out of his fazed state with a little cough. It worked; Matt blinked and looked at Linda, then smiled sheepishly and said, "Um, yeah, it's just that I've never been in your room before or anything, so I was just kinda taking it in." _Taking it in? What, is her room where the new Grand Canyon is going to be or something? I sound like a tourist, taking in the room, _Matt thought, embarrassed.

"Oh, you haven't been in here before? Hm, I thought you had. Whatever, I guess," Linda replied nonchalantly.

"Yeah..." _Tell her! Tell her, you fool! C'mon, just get it over with, tell her how you feel! _"So, um, Linda..." _Inhale, exhale, keep a steady rhythm, exhale, inhale, there's no wimping out of this!_

"Yes?" asked she.

_Exhale._ "I... um... really like you... and stuff. Y'know, like, I like you...a lot."

"Matt..."

"Yeah, so I wanted to know... if maybe you'd, you know, go... out... with me." _There, it's out in the air. I can't take it back, now. Nope. No sirree bob... Can't I?_

"Wha –" Linda began, a little too surprised to manage anything else. Opposite her Matt was looking a little anxious, and she knew she'd have to muster up a better response than "wha." "Right, Matt, it's... I... hm, sorry, Matt, but I like someone else." _Was that response really "better?" _Linda wondered.

Matt's face fell. "I know," said he. He sighed, breaking his steady rhythm of breathing. "I know."

It pained Linda to see Matt looking so sad because of something she did. "Matt... I'm sorry," she whispered, and patted her hand on his shoulder.

"I know," he repeated. He looked at Linda, looked in her eyes one more time, and then left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Oh, man," Linda murmured, feeling rather guilty. "He'll get past it. He's strong that way." Actually, Linda had no idea, but saying these words made her feel better.

_Hm, he... likes me? The way I like Near? Yes, of course, in the way that you like Near, idiot, he just asked you out! Why didn't I know that before? For how long has he liked me? That's... interesting. Matt likes me. Matt, the guy whom I first met because he told me to shove cake in Near's face, who stays inside so much that at times I think he may have forgotten what the Sun looks like, who could make a fortune by selling all his get-rich-quick ideas, who hates Near. That's the guy who likes me? He's also the guy who eagerly agreed to help me with my art project even though he doesn't have much artistic talent, and who remembered my new name when I first came here when even I had trouble with it, and who has never brushed me off, set me aside, regarded me as just a side-note._

Linda halted her train of thought. She sat down on her bed and pulled out her journal. Thoughts can be best organized when you can see them.

_5th of June, '04_

_Journal –_

_So it would appear that Matt has a thing for me. No, it wouldn't "appear" like that, it IS like that. He just told me himself, and he asked me out. I said no, of course, but now I can't help but think about it. I don't know why he'd like me, though it is pretty flattering. He's my friend, so it's a little weird. Then again, Near is my friend, too. Oh, man, today I KISSED Near. On the cheek. I guess that made it pretty obvious how I feel. I don't exactly go around kissing people on the cheeks when I greet them like I'm from Spain. (Side-note: go to Spain someday) I suppose that both Matt and I made confessions today. That's kind of sad, though, because neither of us was told that our feelings were returned. When I kissed Near he just kind of looked at me, and, naturally, I couldn't tell what the heck he was thinking. That kid would be the master of poker. Hm, shouldn't I be a little... I don't know... distraught because of that? That was just Near being Near, though, so it's not as if he turned me down. I didn't even propose anything to him, so he had nothing to turn down, anyway. I had something to turn down. I turned Matt down. Hm, you know what's weird? I feel bad about turning down Matt, but with Near I feel absolutely nothing. Nope, no sadness, no embarrassment (there's a shocker), nothing. I'm absolutely stoic about Near, just like Near is about anything. But I feel so bad for hurting Matt. Ironic, isn't it? But, oh, how I wish that I could react with stoicism about Matt. _

_-Linda_

"I know," Matt muttered as he walked through the door to his own bedroom. "I know, I know."

"You know _what_, exactly?" Mello asked the upset teen when he entered the room. Or at least, that's what Matt wanted to happen. Mello wasn't in the room. _I know, he's probably outside playing soccer or something. I guess he'd achieve hermit status if he stayed in here all the time. That doesn't actually sound too bad. Yes, I think I could handle being a hermit. Stay inside, away from the world and everything in it that wants to hurt me._ Matt flopped down on his bed face-first so that he was now smothering himself in his pillow.

He pulled himself up, remembering to inhale, to exhale, to inhale. "I know." Matt looked lazily around the room. He took a deep breath. This room smelled nothing like Linda's room. This room smelled like bread crusts and hot plastic. It did actually smell faintly of laundry detergent because of all the laundry he'd done the other day, but this scent was overpowered by the smell of bread crusts and hot plastic. No, there wasn't anything good in this room. The only thing in the room was him. _Me, me, me, the awful little me. What an atrocity to have placed in this room._

Matt crawled under the blanket and pulled it over his head. He had no idea how long he stayed under there. He wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep, or slipped into a trance, or perhaps made a chrysalis and hatched out of it, revealing himself as the same sad, boring person who had gone inside in the first place. While under the blanket, though, he felt safe. It was his own little area, and no one else was allowed inside. It was a nice time. _The only nice time in this miserable day, _he thought.

What finally made Matt emerge from his nice little area underneath the covers was the sound of the bedroom door slamming. He poked his head out to see what had happened, and his eyes fell upon Mello. Actually, that was the only thing he could see. Mello's face was about and inch away from his, studying him carefully. "Um..." Matt said, wondering what was up.

Finally, Mello pulled away from his friend's face. "I take it corners just aren't your thing, so you have an emo bed."

Matt sighed. "I know."

"Huh?" Mello asked, confused.

Again, Matt sighed. "Never mind."

"Right..." Mello was quiet for a moment, thinking of what to say next. "You know, man, I told you she was probably going to reject you."

"I know."

"But at least she's thinking about what you said now. That's what girls do, they think about all that stuff. And that means she's thinking about you. Ain't that a good thing?"

"... I know."

**A/N: Circumstances beyond my control are setting in. Just so you know.**


	10. In Which Things Do Not Work Out

_"Forgive yourself for your faults. Forgive others for their faults. Upon forgiving, see with a cleansed eye what you and the the world really are." - Anonymous_

Seventy-two hours. It had been seventy-two hours since the fifth of June, and all the events that had occurred during it, had passed. Seventy-two hours is plenty of time to get your thoughts straightened out.

More or less.

"I've been working on the railroad all the live-long day. I've been working on the railroad, just to pass the time away. Can't you hear the whistle blowing way up early in the morn? Can't you hear the captain shouting, 'Dinah blow your horn,'?" Linda sang to herself as she skipped back to the art room, where she knew she would find Near obediently playing with a Rubik's cube, waiting for her to come and begin painting his portrait.

Except she wouldn't be painting his portrait. She would frustratingly be sketching and erasing his portrait. For the fourth day in a row. It was really becoming rather irritating. She had never before doubted her skills, especially not when it came to drawing Near, but for some reason, she could never get it to be just right. No matter what she said to herself, she wouldn't begin painting until she was sure that her sketch was perfect. This was the girl, after all, who insisted that painting realistically was far superior to any other style.

"Someone's in the kitchen, I kno-o-ow. Someone's in the kitchen with Din-_ah_... strumming the ole banjo. Singing, 'fee, fie, fiddly-eye-oh, fee, fie, fiddly-eye-oh-oh-oh, fee, fie, fiddly-eye-oh.' Strumming the ole banjo," she finished, just as she came to the art room. Seeing Near sitting there in front of her rather plain canvas made her feel worn-out already. This was supposed to have been a fun assignment. It was supposed to be one she enjoyed because she would get to spend so much time around Near. It was _supposed _to be, but, unfortunately, it just _wasn't_.

_Near hasn't even said anything about my kissing him,_ Linda thought, worried that this was a bad sign. "So... Near..." she said, not even wanting to look at her unfinished work. Instead, she turned her attention to the boy in front of her.

"Yes? Hello, Linda," he said.

"Um..." she wasn't sure if she should say what she wanted to, but it was killing her; seventy-two hours was much too long to dwell in anticipation, "when I, you know, when I kissed you the other day, what were you thinking?"

Near looked up at her. _Interesting... So she's finally bringing it up._ "I was thinking it was spur of the moment, that you hadn't been planning on doing that, but that you had been wanting to for a long time. However, I cannot say that drew this final conclusion purely from your action, as I have known how you feel for a long time now."

"Oh... really?" Linda asked, not sure whether she should be embarrassed or not yet.

"Yes," Near said bluntly.

Linda felt her cheeks get hot and put her head down, trying to hide the odd smile she had on her face. "So," she said after a while, "how do you feel? About me."

"I cannot say I return your feelings," replied Near.

Linda sighed sadly. _And I can't say I didn't see this coming._

"Although I do know that Matt feels that way about you," Near said.

"Yeah, I know. He told me," she said softly.

"Oh."

Several minutes went by. Near was numbly playing with his Rubik's cube, while Linda stood there, taking in what Near had said. Finally, she broke the silence: "Near, how long have you known..."

"About your feelings? A couple years," he replied.

"Oh. Wow, I thought you were number one. It took you _that_ long to figure it out?" Her laughter was shaky.

"I drew this conclusion after careful observation of your actions towards me over the years. I discarded many theories, and eventually settled on this one. Which I now know to be true," he calmly explained, his eyes still fixed on the Rubik's cube.

"I see." _My, what an analytical kid he is._

Several minutes passed in silence. In truth, the minutes were no longer than sixty seconds each, the average number of seconds in any minute, but Linda dragged the minutes on, so that by the time said minutes had run their course, she felt she was old enough for a smoke.

But no. She was still a thirteen-year-old girl standing in an art room in front of the boy she liked, who was undoubtedly scrutinizing her and taking in her every action at that very moment. Linda let out a sigh. "Um, Near, this isn't working."

"Actually," the boy said, "you are not working. For four days, you have not been working. I have been playing my part perfectly."

Linda took no offense. She didn't really care what he was saying right now. After all, wasn't he just relaying facts, the same as always?

"I know," said she. "But, hey, since I'm having trouble working with you, how about I try working with someone else?"

"That's fine," Near replied.

"Thanks."

**x.X.x**

_8th of June, '04_

_Journal-_

_It has been established that I like Near. It has been established in Near's head. Well, I guess that's okay. He doesn't like me back, but at least I know, huh? I think I should be crying my eyes out right now, but I'm not really like that. I didn't really cry when my parents were killed. I think I still like Near, anyway, so it'd make no sense to cry about him. The very thought of him makes me happy, so it'd really be something for me to cry over him._

_Still, sometimes Near does things that just make me kind of angry. Like, he says things so bluntly. And he never shows his emotions. And I fell for him. I fell for him, and I'm still falling. Oh, well. I guess I can forgive him. And myself._

_It got really weird really quickly working with him. For me, anyway. I told him I don't want to work with him, and he's cool with it. I asked Matt for help finding someone else to paint. I asked him if I could paint his portrait, but I think he's still embarrassed and doesn't want to spend a lot of time alone with me in a room, and he said no. He said he would look for someone for me, though, so that's nice._

_Well, I guess that's it._

_Linda_

**x.X.x**

**-**_Four Days Later-_

The students were lucky they were in an art class and could get away with such things without the teacher snapping on them, because the gifted children had been chatting their heads off since the class had started twelve minutes ago.

"It's so fun!" one girl with purple pigtails commented on their current assignment of paint-by-numbers. "I, like, have to be all careful while doing the numbers so that they don't screw up."

"I know what you mean," another boy said, "I put a _19 _where a _22_ was supposed to go and didn't notice. Now I have to redo the whole thing 'cause it don't look right."

"Hm, well, I'm not even on the numbers yet. I'm still working on the portrait," one girl said.

"Yeah, I've seen you working in your room. Being careful not to get too creative, are we?" said another, causing the first girl to blush.

"How 'bout you, Linda? How far you got?"

"Um," Linda began, "I've got my model."

This caused a mix of reactions. A few giggles, a few gasps, a few eye rolls.

"Wow."

"Dang, you're slow."

"Why'd it take ya that long? I thought you knew who you were gonna ask."

"It figures."

"So, who's your model, then?"

"Yeah, if it took this long to get 'em, hopefully you got Fabio or something."

"No, I got," Linda paused, wondering if she should tell the truth, but then decided that the truth was the only thing that would be believable, "Mello."

"What? Mello? But he lives here! It took you nine days to get _Mello_? Damn." Most of the other replies were spin-offs of this.

"Hey! I was working with Near, but then it wasn't really working out," Linda said, trying to keep the mockery to a minimum.

"Yeah, right. He probably said that it wasn't going to work out if you kept fawning all over him," said one girl.

"What?" was Linda's ingenious comeback.

This was met with laughter from the other children. And nothing more.

_-Four Hours Later-_

It was time for "I've Been Working on the Railroad: Reprise," and Linda sang it loudly as she skipped down the hall towards Mello's room. She didn't get to sing about how she knew about Dinah and who was in the kitchen with him, though, because she reached the door, and it was time to pound on it, demanding entry.

"What?" called a voice from in the room.

"It's time to come sit around for an hour so that I can paint you!" Linda replied.

"No, it's not!" denied the voice.

"What? Yeah, it is. I told you I was gonna be painting in the art room and to meet me there in ten minutes. I told you half an hour ago!"

"No, you didn't!" the voice insisted.

"Quit being an idiot! Come on, I'm super behind!"

"I think you have the wrong person. Come back later."

Linda groaned. Why did he have to be so difficult? She opened the door and... Oh. Hm, so she did have the wrong person. "Oh, sorry. 'Scuse me, Matt."

"Yes, you are excused," he said, motioning for her to leave. He was engrossed in his GameBoy, but that was no surprise.

"You know where Mello is?" she asked.

"Elsewhere." Matt said dismissively.

"You know when he'll be back?"

"Eventually."

"Hey, look, you got him for me, you asked him to be my model. Now, why aren't being any more helpful?" she demanded.

"I've got my hands full," was Matt's weak excuse. He held up the hands that were holding his GameBoy for emphasis.

Linda sighed for the umpteenth time that day. "Is this about you and your confessions of love?"

"Hey, it was a confess_ion_. It's singular, not plural. And, no, this would not be about my confession of love or anything related to it."

"Well, then, can't you at –" Linda's words were suspended by the fact that someone had just shoved her.

"Perdonnez-moi," Mello said, as he walked through the now-empty doorway. He flopped down on his bed and began to reach for a pair of headphones.

"Hey, you're late!" Linda accused once she realized who had just shoved her and flopped into bed.

"No, you're late," explained Mello, "because while you were in here doing God-knows-what with Matt, I was sitting, bored as hell, in the art room."

Linda wanted to say something about that comment regarding herself and Matt doing God-knows-what, but instead looked past it and said, "Okay, then, let's go to the art room."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure." With a groan, Mello hopped up from his bed, dropping the headphones on the nightstand.

Linda's canvas now was the same one she had been using while working with Near. She had Mello sit in the same position because of this; Near's shaped, erased though it may be, was still visible on the canvas. Waste not, want not.

Linda brought her pencil down on the canvas. Thirty minutes later, she was painting, amazed with herself at this task.

"You know," she said, "you're much easier to draw than Near." Mello smirked.

"Is that so?" he asked tauntingly.

"Mm-hm."

Mello chuckled. Linda looked up from her painting at him, perplexed by his behavior.

"So how you feel about Matt?" he suddenly asked.

_Great, I bet Matt put him up to this_, though Linda. "He's cool. I like him as a friend. Yeah, he's a pretty cool guy. Pretty cool friend."

"I see... He's pretty cool," Mello said thoughtfully, digesting the information. "And how do you feel about Near?"

Linda looked at him again, her eyebrows raised. "Oh, I think you know how I feel about him."

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"He's... interesting," Linda explained. "Fascinating. I couldn't help myself."

"Hm? How so? How is _he _fascinating?" Yes, it seemed now that there was no doubt: Matt had definitely put him up to this.

"Everything he does. The way he's always got this blank look on his face, but you know that, really, despite outward appearances, he's a happy guy. And he likes to be happy. He just doesn't like to show it." After a pause, Linda said, "I think that not showing it _makes_ him happy, too."

"Oh. So what do you think about _me_?" Mello asked.

Linda laughed. "You're you. You're Mello. That's what I think."

"That's boring," he complained.

Linda laughed again.

**A/N: So terribly sorry for the late update! I'll try to make up for it with a quicker update next time, okay? Okay.**

**Yay! Penultimate chapter!**


	11. In Which There is Coffee and Art

"_To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing." -Leo Buscaglia_

-October 4, 2009-

The water cycle is something that I am sure many people are familiar with, even if they wish they weren't. Most people probably don't the water cycle a second thought after walking out of their classroom in the third grade. After all, there are so many more interesting cycles to think about, such as the life cycle, cycles of change, the cycles of the moon, the cycles of day and night, energy cycles, planetary cycles, seasonal cycles, motorcycles, chemical cycles, rock cycles, disease cycles, and, of course, sleep cycles. Yet oddly enough, the cycle that was on Matt's mind was the water cycle.

The reason for this was that it had just rained – a form of precipitation. He was making sure to walk around the puddles on the sidewalk – the collection part of the process. The sun, looking rather pathetic hiding behind the remaining nimbus clouds, had already begun its job of evaporation and transpiration. Before long, condensation would occur, and it would rain again. _Hopefully, _thought Matt_, in this city. It gives me a good excuse to stay indoors_.

However, the downside to being stuck indoors on a rainy day is that one runs out of necessities, such as food, toilet paper, and toothpaste. And Matt did indeed run out of these things while being lazy indoors. So, he was now walking down the wet streets towards the drug store, where he knew he could find everything he needed, with the water cycle on his mind, wishing that he knew how to hot-wire a car so that he wouldn't have to walk all four city blocks.

Until something caught his eye.

He saw it through the window of a small coffee shop. Curious and disbelieving, he walked inside. The bell on the door jangled as he walked in, and the young woman behind the counter smiled and nodded at him. He returned her nod, but walked in the opposite direction of the counter. There, on the wall above the booths, was a painting. Granted, the wall had about half a dozen paintings, but only one of them really mattered. It was the painting closest to the window, the one that he had noticed while making the trek to the drug store.

It was a painting of children. There were three children in the foreground, clearly the subject of the painting. There were two little boys, the shorter one being dressed completely in white with cake on his face and in his hair, the taller one having red hair, which seemed to stand out when compared to the white cake on his face. This latter boy's hands were also covered in cake. Close to the boys there was a little girl with pigtails, her hands covered in cake. All three children were smiling, giving the impression that they were laughing. Nearby there was a table with an extravagant cake on it, chunks of it clearly missing.

The painting felt familiar to Matt. Memories of his childhood came seeping into his consciousness, and he looked at the little card underneath the painting on which the title and the artist's name were printed. "_Birthday Traditions" Linda Townsend_. Matt smiled widely as he realized what was so familiar about the painting. He was the little red-haired boy. He had shoved cake into the face of the other little boy, claiming it was a tradition. The little girl – she had been his childhood crush. But she had rejected him. Linda, her name was. She always was a great artist. It took no stretch of the mind to put two and two together and realize that Linda, the girl from his past, the girl from the painting, was the artist.

"Linda Townsend," he murmured. "So, that's the name she's using now, huh? She kept her alias from Wammy's." Matt couldn't say he was truly surprised, as he too used still used his alias, even though he had not been the one to succeed L and thus no longer needed it.

_Linda Townsend_, _Linda Townsend, Linda Townsend,_ he kept thinking. The name sounded familiar. Then it clicked. Linda Townsend was the name of a famous painter from Winchester. He wondered why the painting of a famous artist would be found hanging in a small coffee shop. He turned to ask the woman behind the counter, but then doubted that she knew, and simply smiled to himself, deciding to think of it as serendipity.

_Linda, _he thought, ditching the water cycle for nostalgia about a girl he hadn't seen in a year and a half. He remembered the way she looked when he had last seen her. Her hair had still been in pigtails, although now they were not quite as high on her head and were braided. She had been waving goodbye to him from the gates to the orphanage, a sad look on her face, one she couldn't hide with her friendly smile. Memories of her from that point back came rushing into Matt's mind. He smiled, remembering how he used to feel when he saw her, when her name was brought up. He remembered, and he knew he always would.

Your first love, it is something that you can never forget, no?

**x.X.x**

-October 13, 2009-

The phone rang at what Linda believed to be an unearthly hour, waking her from her pleasant slumber.

"Bloody... And I just got over my insomnia last month, too," she grumbled as she fumbled for the phone on her nightstand. She picked it up and cleared her throat, hoping she would sound good and tired so that person on the other end would realize how rude it was to call someone at three in the morning and would hang up. "Hello?" she moaned.

"Hello. Linda?" the voice on the other end asked. It was a familiar voice. So, so familiar. "This is Roger. From the orphanage." Aha, that's why it was familiar.

"Oh. Hey. Yeah. Um, what is it?" she asked, trying to now get rid of the sleepy sound in her voice. This was, after all, someone she did not want to rudely hang up on.

"You remember the boys Mello and Near, right?" he asked her. Linda wondered how his voice could sound so devoid of sleepiness; they were, after all, located in the same time zone.

"Yeah, Mello, Near, yeah, I 'member 'em," she said. "What about 'em?"

"Do you think you could draw them? Just sketches of their faces, and then when you're done fax them to me? You do remember the fax number for the orphanage, right?"

"Mm. Mm-hm," she mumbled.

"Good," Roger replied, "please have them within the next hour."

_The next hour? Oh, fun_, Linda complained internally. "Yeah. Okay."

"Excellent. Thank you, Linda," Roger said, and hung up before Linda could return the farewell.

"Hmm." Linda placed the phone back on the receiver. _Coffee, caffeine needed to be able to bear functioning at this unholy hour._ She flopped out of her bed and trudged to the kitchen. Two minutes later, her microwave beeped, and she removed the cup of instant coffee from it. Sipping it, she decided that maybe she would be able to do this.

Bringing her cup with her to her studio, she sat down on a swivel chair in front of an easel. _Okay, so I have to sketch... Mello and Near. _

She began sketching Mello, and memories of her days at Wammy's House began to waltz merrily through her mind. Mello, she had painted his portrait once, about a year before he left the orphanage. She recalled he had been second choice for a person to paint. Her first choice had been the other boy she was to draw, Near. She couldn't seem to draw him, though. She had liked him, but he didn't return her feelings. No, Near hadn't been the one to like her, it had been a different boy. Matt. But, because no one was very lucky if they attended Wammy's, she hadn't returned his feelings. He'd been sad, but they'd remained friends.

_At the time, it seemed like unwanted drama_, she thought as she shaded in a few final parts of Mello's portrait, _but now it seems like a cute little story to tell your daughter when she's having boy trouble or something_. Linda smiled to herself, replaying the past in head, wondering if she would even remember most of what happened by the time she had a daughter to relay the tale to. She laughed to herself. "Man, I'm tired." She took a swig of the coffee.

Linda began her portrait of Near, her hand moving almost by itself from memory. Another smile graced her lips as she thought of how much she used to draw this particular boy.

"I wonder what he's up to now," she murmured. _Probably has an internship with L, that little genius. _She laughed at her little joke. _I wonder what they're all up to now. Hm, we have some good memories together. I don't want to lose any of those memories. I don't want to forget about any of them, Near, Mello, Matt, even Roger. _Linda put her pencil down, reflecting on what she had just thought. "No, I don't think I can forget about any of them. I can never forget."

Another swig of coffee and another three minutes, and Linda was done with her portraits of both Mello and Near. "Well, that's that. Now I can return to bed. Yup, that's the end."

"_It takes a minute to have a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone – but it takes a lifetime to forget someone." - Anonymous_


End file.
